Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DREW
How long is he going to make me wait?
I check my phone. Ten after eight.
I swipe to the list of staff numbers I’d saved.
I could text him to see where he is. But why give him the satisfaction? And if I sent a message and he didn’t reply, it’d be me who looked foolish. Anyway, he’s the one who’s late, so it should be him who texts me.
Five more minutes, then I’ll leave. Fifteen minutes is plenty of time to wait for someone if you haven’t heard from them.
Actually, it’ll be more like twenty-five, since I was ten minutes early.
I pick up my water glass. The rim is covered with most of my lipstick. I’ve been taking sips the whole time to give myself something to do. And made those sips really tiny so I don’t empty the glass too quickly—I do not want to be the pathetic person the server has to keep topping up because they’ve been stood up .
Not that I’d have been stood up—you’re only technically stood up if it’s a date. And this is most definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not that.
Not that Garrett believed me when I came downstairs wearing my only black dress and with my hair and makeup done.
“Lucky guy,” he’d said, pointing at the deep V-neck.
The girls are a little more out there than I would have liked for a dinner I don’t want to have, with a man I don’t like. But it’s the one thing I have with me that’s even remotely suitable for Pulacini’s. The next most dressy thing in my closet, or rather my suitcase since I’m still only half unpacked, is a pair of jeans and the one T-shirt that’s still white.
I’d tossed this dress in so I had something to wear to the end-of-season gala dinner in case I didn’t have time to go home before then. Home being Washington, DC, since I worked for the national team.
But that’s not really home. Home will always be Boston. Where I feel like I belong. And there’s nowhere in this city I feel more at home than at Spirit Field. Certainly not my dad’s apartment. I haven’t even made it over to visit him since I got here.
My stepmom, Suzanna, texted a few days ago, inviting me for dinner once I’d settled in. But everything’s been so hectic that I haven’t had time to get around to arranging it. I shake my head at myself, realizing that “too busy” was always my dad’s excuse for everything—for missing school plays, for sending a cab to pick me up from music lessons, and for not making it to my soccer games, even the big college ones.
It’s not fair to leave her hanging. She’s perfectly lovely and has always been kind and welcoming to me. And I seem to have some unexpected time on my hands right now.
ME
Hi Suzanna, sorry it’s taken me forever to reply. Would a Monday work? Early in the week is always less stressful at the club. Let me know if there’s one that works best for you!
Another place I definitely don’t feel at home is this restaurant. It’s all a bit too fancy-schmantzy for me. Not to mention romantic.
The lighting is low and discreet. Each table is bathed in the gentle glow of an orb-like candle holder. And almost every table is a table for two, with couples gazing adoringly at each other, uplit by the flickering light. There’s just one group of three, and they look pretty intimately connected too.
The whole thing is awful. Being made to have dinner with Hugo is awful. Him not showing up is awful. The Fab Four being pissed off with us is awful. As is the prospect of them not choosing me at the end of the season.
But I have to face the fact that it’s a definite possibility. And given that Hugo is Hugo freaking Powers and I’m…well…no one, it’s more than likely.
In which case I’ll be jobless in a few weeks, so another thing I should use this time for is to put out feelers for a backup plan.
I don’t want to have to consider working for a team other than the Commoners, but I have to be realistic about the chances of being kept on .
Since I ruffled a few feathers leaving the national squad with almost no notice to come here, they’re off the table until I’ve fully rebuilt those bridges.
I find myself heaving out a long sigh.
Going back to Portland wouldn’t be bad. I was happy there. The only reason I left was because I was headhunted for the job in Dijon and it meant the chance to experience working for a European side and living in France.
So, with my heart in my throat, I tap out another text. This time to the coach of the Portland Cedars.
ME
Hey Jill! I know it’s been a while, but do you have time for a chat at some point?
“More water, miss?” I jump at the server’s words. His jug is hovering over my almost empty glass.
I must look pathetic. The only person in the room whose date didn’t show.
I check my phone again, eight seventeen.
A message pops up, making my heart lurch.
SUZANNA
This coming Monday is perfect! I’ll see what your dad’s up to, then arrange a time. Can’t wait to see you!
I put my hand over my racing heart and blow out a breath, unable to decide whether I’m happy or disappointed that it’s not Hugo.
Anyway, his time’s up. I’ve already been waiting for him longer than I’d planned. Screw Hugo freaking Powers. I’m not making a fool of myself hanging around here any more.And the Fab Four only have him to be pissed-off with about this. I fulfilled my side of the bargain and showed up.
I grab my impractically small purse. As someone who lugs a kit bag on a daily basis, this shiny little black thing is laughable.
“No, thank you.” I push my chair back. “I have to?—”
Oh, but…actually, I don’t have to do anything.
This meal is paid for. I bothered to get ready to come out for the evening. And when will I get the chance to eat at Pulacini’s again? Probably never.
The last person I’d ever want to have dinner with is Hugo Powers anyway. So, it would actually be way better without him.
Yes, to hell with it. I’m staying.
I tuck my chair back under the table and pick up the menu that I’ve already read approximately four hundred times. This is going to be a much more excellent evening than the one I was expecting.
“Actually, yes,” I tell the server. “A water top-up would be great, thank you. And if you could bring me the wine list, that would be lovely. Looks like it’ll be just me after all.”
“Our solo diners are usually among the happiest,” the server whispers, like he’s sharing a trade secret.
“Oh, I’m absolutely certain I’ll have a much nicer time than if my companion had show?—”
“Shit. Sorry, Wilcox.” Hugo rushes up to the table. “There was an accident snarling up the streets around my place. The cab was delayed and then we were stuck in the jam.”
While my heart sinks at his presence, it also does a funny little shudder as he undoes the cuffs of his blush-colored shirt and rolls up the sleeves .
“I’ll get two wine lists.” The server’s knowing smile says it all.
It’s not like I haven’t seen those veined, muscular forearms lately. He wears T-shirts all the time. But there’s something somehow a bit more…stirring…about them being slowly revealed below the folded-back cuffs of a dress shirt.
The stirring is only further encouraged by the way he grabs the back of the chair to pull it out with one hand, while pushing the fingers of the other through his hair—hair that looks like he’s spent some time arranging, as opposed to the just-out-of-bed look he sports at work. And by the way his khakis hug his thighs and sit snugly around his…area.
My brain must not put Hugo and beds and areas in the same thought again. Never.
He sits down and hitches the chair closer to the table. “Were you about to order without me?” he asks with the irritatingly dazzling smile that has graced a thousand newsstands.
The couple two tables over look at him, then give each other a yes-it’s-him nod.
“I’d given up on you,” I tell him, now unsure whether it’s better or worse that he’s shown up.
“We might as well make the best of it, right?” He takes the wine list from the reappearing server.
“Exactly what I thought. But now you’ve arrived and ruined it.”
He ignores me and flips the wine list open. “Red or white?”
“Red.”
“We’ll have a bottle of the Laughing Penguin Cabernet, please,” he tells the server .
“Excellent choice, sir,” the server replies. Presumably he says the same to everyone no matter what they choose.
“You’ll like it, Wilcox,” he says. “Promise.”
“You’re a wine expert?”
“Nope. I’m a you expert.”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “We’ve barely known each other a week. And it seems like neither of us likes what we’ve found.”
The server returns and pours a glug of wine into Hugo’s glass.
“Actually, I know nothing about wine. But a friend of a friend owns this vineyard. So I always support them when I see their name on a wine list.” He picks up the glass and rests the rim between his lips.
Lips that I have kissed.
A tremor blooms in my chest at the memories.
Why did I have to kiss him?
Because I was tipsy, and happy, and having a great night, and I thought kissing the ridiculously good-looking celebrity soccer dude with the shoulders and the arms and the butt and the legs and the face…oh my God, the face…would be fun. And it was.
Until he tumbled out of the closet and instantly passed out on the floor.
And clearly groping strangers in closets is such an everyday occurrence in the life of Hugo Powers that he doesn’t even remember.
Or if he does remember, it’s so insignificant to him that he doesn’t think it needs to be addressed.
It’s hard to believe all that actually happened with the person sitting opposite me who’s telling the server that the wine is good and he can pour .
Hugo holds up his glass toward me as soon as the server leaves. “Cheers.”
I raise mine and give it a reluctant tap against his.
He takes a sip, then tips his head toward the wine, nodding to acknowledge his fine choice.
“So.” He puts down his glass and steeples his fingers under his perfectly stubbled chin. “Should we be grown-ups and talk about Paris?”